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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25281742">Something of Tragedy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pansiesforthoughts/pseuds/pansiesforthoughts'>pansiesforthoughts</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Melancholy, Pre-Canon, Reflection, benvolio and mercutio are somft, generally pretentious prose, tw: some mentions of blood/injury</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:27:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>938</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25281742</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pansiesforthoughts/pseuds/pansiesforthoughts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for RetJ Fandom Week </p>
<p>&gt;&gt; A short thing exploring the hopelessness of Verona's feud as part of everyday life. &lt;&lt;</p>
<p>My friend calls it a 'kinda dramatic stream of consciousness'. I call it 'the accursed fic' because I struggled with lack of inspiration while writing it :,)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mercutio/Benvolio Montague</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Something of Tragedy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There is tragedy in the way Benvolio cups his injured face. He leans on the doorframe where the lamp exposes blossoming bruises which mar the smooth colouring of his skin. Mercutio wants to reach out, to soothe his angry features, but Benvolio turns away, wincing.</p>
<p>There is tragedy in the fact that Benvolio only has to say ‘the Capulets’ as he lets Mercutio see the gash on his cheek. This is the unseen aftermath of the citizens’ quarrel. The warriors return to their homes bleeding and then re-enter the battle every day—good as new, ready to fight as if nothing has changed. Nothing ever changes. And who has the power to mend the state of things anyway?</p>
<p>Mercutio tries his best to at least mend Benvolio’s wound. He cleans the cut, being careful not to press too hard or tear the fragile skin. All the while, Benvolio sits in a chair before the fireplace in silence. He is always like this after fights. Mercutio hates it, and it happens all too often. He wishes Benvolio would speak to him so he can respond with honey-soft words of comfort, but the silence is too delicate to break. Words, no matter how important, do not seem to fit here. Maybe that is the problem with all of Verona. Benvolio would not like that observation—he had always strived to resolve things civilly, with discussion. Not many shared that view. They just struck before the opposition could cut them first, no time for civil debate in a city run by bloodshed.</p>
<p>When Benvolio finally speaks, it is with the same weariness he has carried his entire visit. “Surely you’re tired of being an impromptu doctor, Merc?”</p>
<p>Mercutio is rinsing the bloodied towel, wringing the red-tinged water out. When he was younger he would blanch at the sight of blood. Not anymore. </p>
<p>He sighs, lifting his head to meet Benvolio’s gaze. “Not when it’s you. I couldn’t just leave you bleeding, could I?”</p>
<p>But he does wish the fear of death, of losing one he loved, would cease. In the worst times, there is barely a moment where the talk of the town moves away from who challenged who to a duel, who was injured yesterday, who has been killed. Always, there are threats and mourning. Always, there is pain. It’s only when Mercutio sees it with his own eyes—Benvolio stumbling inside with a limp, or watching his nose bleed in the reflection of a window—that he is filled with dread by Verona’s escalating hostilities.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>There is softness sometimes, moments that are hard to come by. Mercutio cherishes them when he can. Benvolio leans on his chest as the wind blows petals from the cherry tree above. Gentle pink blooms that swirl and fall like sugar upon them. Time slows as Benvolio runs his fingers through Mercutio’s hair. There is a peacefulness that drifts around them, quiet and warm like springtime. Lying in the long grass on the outskirts of the city, Mercutio can briefly forget about the clash and chaos of Verona—maybe one day, the peace he feels for now will be constant, rising from the rubble like a tulip through bitter snow. Verona would surely tear the world down before that fabled day came.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>“It’s getting late,” murmurs Benvolio, lifting his head.</p>
<p>“Nooo don’t get up, you’re keeping me warm!”</p>
<p>“See? Soon it will be colder. And dark too. We should head off.”</p>
<p>Mercutio feigns a gasp. “Scared of the dark are you?”</p>
<p>Benvolio grins, “wow, yes,<em> of course. </em>Up you get.” He grabs Mercutio’s hand and tries to pull him to his feet.</p>
<p>“Ow! That’s my injured arm!” Mercutio complains, slapping Benvolio’s hands away.</p>
<p>“Shit, sorry.” Benvolio leans over him. “Don’t get into fights next time.”</p>
<p>Mercutio notes how Benvolio pins the blame on him. “<em>You’re</em> always getting into fights,” he retorts.</p>
<p>“I’m always <em>breaking up </em>fights. You have no need to get involved anyway.”</p>
<p>He was half-right. Mercutio was not a Montague or a Capulet, not bound to the conflict in any way. But almost everyone found themselves wrapped up in the feud regardless. Hatred is hungrier than any beast. It lures and it consumes<em>. </em>By associating with the Montagues, he sealed that fate. </p>
<p>Benvolio tries to pull him up again and ends up falling back onto the soft grass. Mercutio laughs as Benvolio flails around, making no effort to move himself.</p>
<p>“Stubborn,” Benvolio says, and drapes himself over Mercutio again. He is lying on Mercutio’s sore arm, but Mercutio does not have the heart to tell him to move.</p>
<p>
  <em>He is tired, let him be for now.</em>
</p>
<p>Soon enough, Benvolio has dozed off again. His face is troubled even when he is asleep, as if the stress of playing peacemaker always stays with him. How cruel that Benvolio, who trades in kindness, should find himself an integral part of the war. Mercutio accepts that he himself is not free of guilt. Even as a minor player he could not deny he found a strange satisfaction in taunts and sharp words, bickering with Capulet servants as they passed in the street. But surely Benvolio, who only drew to stop a fray, could not hold any blame? Mercutio thought he deserved innocence, though perhaps that was just because he held Benvolio so dear. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>There is tragedy in the way Benvolio has to tell Mercutio to take the well-lit streets home as he kisses him goodnight. Benvolio’s lips are soft and the taste of him lingers with his words. “There’s always somebody looking for a fight,” he says. </p>
<p>
  <em>You can never be too careful in Verona.</em>
</p>
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